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The austere Miss Susan H. Croft unbent in a nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells remained silent, thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on Emma's face. A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office door. Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, red-cheeked woman who entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair with work-roughened fingers.
The parcel was unwrapped at last, its shimmering white contents contrasting with the girl's shabby dress and work-roughened hands, much as the dreams of the wedding-day contrast with the hard realities that follow.
As Lydia's work-roughened, knuckly hands were returning the funeral clothes to the suitcase, another question occurred to Dundee: "Lydia, did you know, before I questioned you at the Miles home yesterday, that Sprague had returned for that bag he had left in the bedroom upstairs?" Her scarred cheek flushed livid, but the maid answered with defiant honesty: "Yes, I did!
A night of drizzling rain, a street of tall, dingy, grey houses, and a boy, his day's work done, bounding upstairs three steps at a time to a cosy kitchen where the tea is spread, where work-roughened hands at his coming lift the brown teapot from the hob, and a kind mother's voice welcomes him home at the end of the day....
I reckon you wouldn't have let your Sammy-Jo into the factory if the heart of you could ha' spoke. Seems like yesterday when I saw them-all totin' Sammy-Jo up The Way to kiss you good-bye, an' him only ten years old an' dyin' o' the hurt o' the wheels." Rose-Lily bowed her head on her work-roughened hands and sobbed miserably.
Brandeis, and slipped her moist and cold little hand into her mother's warm, work-roughened palm. The mother's brown eyes, very bright with unshed tears, left their perusal of the prayer book to dwell upon the white little face that was smiling rather wanly up at her. The pages of the prayer book lay two-thirds or more to the left.
Michael came to her side. "I want you for my wife," he said simply. She held out her work-roughened hands, while the keen-edged sunlight pitilessly revealed the hollowed line of cheek and throat, the lustreless dark hair, the fine lines that Pain, the great Sculptor, had graved about her mouth. "You are an artist before everything, Michael," she said. "Look look well!"
I wouldn't go back to England now, to live, for anything in the world. I couldn't breathe." "You're a man. You have the best of it, and all the credit." "Not with everyone," said Nora. She fell on her knees beside the elder woman's chair and stroked her work-roughened old hand. "The outsiders don't know. You mustn't blame them, how could they?
"He wanted you for a wife not a model, my dear. You can buy models at so much the hour." "Oh, Marraine! You won't understand " Lady Arabella took the slender, work-roughened hands in hers. "Perhaps I understand better than you think," she said quietly. "There are other ways of assessing life than merely in terms of beauty.
She cast glances of disgust at his work-roughened hands and his faded, patched smock, and drew away from him. Pere Bru sat with his head bowed, waiting. He was bothered by the napkin that was on the plate before him. Finally he lifted it off and placed it gently on the edge of the table, not thinking to spread it over his knees.
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